Poetry in Motion
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Ryan's on a bit of an adrenalin high and Esposito's there to help him out with it. Tag fic to 3x09, Close Encounters of the Murderous Kind.


Ryan bounces on the balls of his feet and grins widely at the back of Esposito's head as he locks the apartment do or behind them. When Esposito turns around, he blinks at Ryan and arches an eyebrow. "What's got you all happy?"

"Did you _see _me tackle that guy," Ryan asks. He snags Esposito's tie and uses it to pull him in, hand over hand. "Did you see the way he went down? Bam! Just like that!" Ryan exclaims, tugging on the tie and leaning in to nip sharply at Esposito's jaw. Esposito looks amused, but he doesn't move away. Instead, he crowds closer, his hands curling around Ryan's hips. Which is nice. Good, really. Really good, even. Ryan feels buzzed, high from the adrenalin rush, and Esposito's hands are twin anchors, holding him down and keeping him from vibrating apart. He bounces some more. Hooks his finger into the knot of Esposito's tie and yanks. "I never get to do the tackling. That's your domain. But I did tonight and it was a thing of beauty!"

"It was a pretty sweet tackle," Esposito agrees. His voice comes out sounding rough, or at least rougher than it normally does, but that might have something to do with the bruise Ryan's sucking on his neck. He has Ryan pinned back against the wall now, hot and heavy against him to keep him in place. Ryan wriggles a little in his grasp, testing his boundaries, and Esposito's fingers tighten marginally. Ryan's jaw hurts and he's pretty certain it's because he can't stop grinning, and Esposito has him pinned against the wall and he tackled a guy and he can't move, but he feels so incredibly in _control_. So he bites Esposito again, this time on the shoulder. Esposito's breath hisses out between his teeth and he slides a thigh between Ryan's.

They're both still completely dressed-if you don't count Esposito's tie, which is somewhere on the floor near their feet-and there's fuzz on Ryan's tongue from Esposito's shirt. Esposito's breath is the perfect mixture of hot and damp against the shell of Ryan's ear, and when he rocks his hips, white lights explode behind Ryan's eyelids. He hadn't even realized they were closed, but they must be if he's seeing lights behind them, he reasons. When he opens them, Esposito's neck is_ right there_, so he bites it again. There will be bruises to worry about and explain in the morning, but right now Ryan doesn't care. Everything's narrowed down to him and Esposito and the sharp, hot pleasure that's building between them, as urgent as the coil of raw energy in his chest, wound tight as a spring, just waiting to be let loose.

There are too many clothes. Too many layers. He wants to get rid of them, to feel skin on skin, but every time he touches Esposito, all he can manage to do is pull him closer and closer until there's not even room for light between them. And yet the fucking clothes are still there. He fists handfuls of the back of Esposito's shirt and pulls, but Esposito just seems to take it as encouragement. And then Ryan doesn't really care so much because Esposito has a rhythm going, and Ryan's crumpling the fabric of his shirt into balls and making a high keening noise in the back of his throat that he'll probably be embarrassed about tomorrow. Probably about the same time he starts to worry about the hickeys.

But that can wait until tomorrow.

Right now there's just that amazing, perfect rocking, and Esposito's breath on his ear and hands on his hips. It doesn't take long. They're both too charged to draw it out-there'll be time for that later, probably in the shower while they're cleaning up, and maybe again once they reach the bed. But only maybe, because neither of them are exactly twenty anymore. Ryan's head falls back against the wall and he bites his lower lip, his breath ragged. In a few minutes, things will start to get sticky and uncomfortable, and maybe even a little sore, because the wall is hard and they really aren't twenty anymore, but for now Ryan runs his hands lazily up and down the curve of Esposito's spine and lets himself feel boneless and sated and _alive_.

"It was a fucking amazing tackle," he says, his voice a little dazed even in his own ears.

Esposito laughs and presses his face against the side of Ryan's neck, his eyelashes teasing the delicate skin there. "Like poetry in motion, bro."

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